


You Are the Girl (That I've Been Dreaming of)

by hayjolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayjolras/pseuds/hayjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing quite like a crush on a straight girl to totally ruin your prom night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are the Girl (That I've Been Dreaming of)

I have a problem. Like, a  _major_ problem.

This problem happens to be a five-foot-three, fit as hell, blonde girl that answers to the name of Cosette Fauchelevent.

She’s my best friend. 

Oh, and I’m in love with her. 

We’ve been friends since, I don’t know, before I can remember. We must’ve met in school or something, and we just stuck, growing up together, sharing secrets, having sleepovers. Everything. Wherever she went, I followed, and vice-versa. Cosette and I were the dynamic duo. Teachers dreaded having up together in the same class and sat us at opposite ends of the classroom — not that that stopped us from disrupting the class. We only ever shared bubblegum with each other and found ways to chew it without the teachers noticing. In an attempt to stop teachers from reading out notes out loud when they saw them, we created our own separate language. We finished each other’s sentences, knowing exactly what the other person was going to say next (and besides, most stories we told had to do with each other). Every year we spent together, we got a little bit closer, a bit more inseparable, so that, when high school rolled around, everyone knew who we were.

She’s the one who grew up to be the schools “it” girl, though. I’m the stereotypical bitchy best friend. I punched one of the football players in the face when he tried to feel me up at my locker. Cosette’s the pleaser, the flirter, the life of the party. I’m the intimidating, loud, scowling one.

I don’t mind that necessarily. Actually, I don’t really mind it at all. I pretty much hate everyone, save for a very few number of people. Even then, though, I want to punch those people in the face at least eight times a day.

Anyway, back to the point. I’m not sure when I started feeling this way about Cosette. I mean, I’ve kind of always known I was, you know, a bit on the sapphic side, but ‘cmon. How cliche is that? Falling for your best friend and hopelessly pining for her from afar.

It’s very cliche.

The feeling sort of crept up on me, I guess. Before I knew it, I was way in over my head.

*     *     *

Things got much worse when prom was announced just a little over a month ago. Cosette was all aflutter about it to  _begin_  with, but then Marius Pontmercy, of all people, had to go and ask her to the stupid thing, and suddenly, my world imploded. She was over my house for a solid  _four hours_  just talking and talking and talking, telling me about him and how cute he is and how he’d asked her (he bought her cupcakes that said, “Prom?” on them. We ate the cupcakes. Eating that fucking thing felt pathetically great), and how she said yes and how I  _had_  to go this year because I bailed last year in favor of getting high with the stoners on the football field. And besides — I had to be there with her to experience the excitement.

I only listened because she’s really, really cute when she’s excited. Her face scrunches up and she kind of loses control of her limbs and her voice gets kind of squeaky. And, okay, she’s my friend, so I was kind of excited that she was excited, despite the fact that I wanted to drive over to Pontmercy’s house and punch him so hard in the mouth he’d be shitting teeth for the next fiscal year. She was happy; therefore, I was happy.

She could’ve done worse, too, I suppose. Like, for example, I had Montpanarsse, the notorious school drug dealer, on my tail. Apparently, “Don’t fucking come near me again or I’ll hot-glue your dick to your leg” is not a clear “no” to him.

So, Pontmercy it is.

But I’d give anything for it to be me.

*     *     *

“Our little sapphic queen stares off in the distance, admiring the long legs of her unrequited love.”

The voice is low and teasing in my ear, and it makes me jump about ten feet into the air.

“Woah, calm down girl,” Grantaire, putting a hand on my should as I turn around to face him.

“You fucktrumpet,” I respond nastily, showing my books into my locker and slamming the door shut, “could you  _be_  any louder?”

Grantaire runs a hand through his dark curls and laughs. “If anyone’s gonna out you, it’ll be you, ‘Ponine. You’re blatantly staring at her legs. It’s sickening.”

“Yeah, the same way you stare at the back of our great leader in Economics,” I reply cooly, leaning against the locker. It’s a jab, but it’s not the same. Everyone knows about Grantaire’s thing for Enjolras, except, of course, for Enjolras himself. Mostly because Grantaire’s such an asshole to him, but whatever.

Grantaire still looks bothered, though, and opens his mouth to say something, when two dark, strong arms wrap around him, getting him into a headlock.

It’s Bahorel, who’s laughing as him and Grantaire rough house. He’s quick and smart and funny and just happens to be the guy who is keeping my “straight girl” cover for me. He’s in on it, of course. Him and Grantaire only found out because we got piss drunk last summer and I let something slip about it (according to Grantaire, I “slipped out” the whole story in between shots of vodka, my crying only getting worse with each round, so, you know, add insult to injury).

He’s really good at it, too. When I’m not with Cosette, I’m usually with Bahorel, so everyone kind of figured we had a thing, like a friends with benefits sort of thing. We show up at parties together, hold hands in the hallway, make out in front of other kid’s lockers as they try to do the combo — those sort of annoying high school things. He’s not bad looking, either, with his shiny black hair that falls just in front of his grey eyes. He’s dark and strong and basically everything I need in a beard.

After Grantaire manages to throw him off, he walks over to me and kisses me, but like, he’s kind of sucking my face, and his gum finds it’s way to my mouth. He’s not normally a bad kisser. It’s usually just when he’s —

“How high  _are_  you right now?” I ask, pushing him off me, chewing on his gum. “We  _literally_  just got out of school ten minutes ago.”

“Not so loud,  _Thénardier_ ,” he hushes innocently, but his eyes are way beyond bloodshot right now. “I don’t need to get arrested —”

“ _Again_ ,” Grantaire and I chime in, smirking. Bahorel’s got a bit of a track record. Mostly for fighting and beating people up, nothing that serious.

While Bahorel takes a go at Grantaire again, I blow a bubble with the gum and turn around to see Cosette at her locker. She’s still talking to Pontmercy. Christ. Is she attempting to summarize Game of Thrones for him? We’ll be here all day.

“If you wanna leave, I’ll drive you home,” Bahorel says from behind me, probably looking at me looking at Cosette.

“Like hell I’m getting into a car with your pot-induced ass. You barely drive according to the law while your  _sober_ ,” I respond as he wraps his arms around me. Normally, I would mind this, but the touch is more friendly and warm and comforting than a romantic gesture. That’s kind of what I need right now. Even if that means I’ll smell like weed when he lets go of me.

Bahorel kisses my hair. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says playfully in my ear, “about prom.”

“ _What_ about prom?”

“Do you want to go?”

I sigh heavily. Cosette’s laughing at something Pontmercy said, her nose scrunching up in that cute way as he turns brick red. I wonder if he meant whatever he said to be funny. I kind of hope not. Make him feel like an idiot for once. God knows I feel like one every breathing moment of this godforsaken life I’ve been given.

“She  _has_  to go,” Grantaire says, looking up from his phone. “ _Cosette_  made her promise.”

That’s when Bahorel picks me up by the waist and spins me, making this freaky, “Ahhh,” sound, like he’s all sagely or something.

I try to wiggle free from him, but Grantaire’s laughing at us, and Bahorel’s grip gets tighter, so, you know. There’s not much I can do at this point.

“It’s funny, ‘cause no one  _makes_  you do anything,” Bahorel says as he carefully sets me down. “You make that abundantly clear at least twice a day. But suddenly Cosette —”

“What about me?”

Oh, shit.

“Oh, shit,” Bahorel mutters as I spin on my heel to face Cosette.

I turn red as she smooths out her light pink dress, looking at us with the cutest curious expression on her face. Bahorel and his big fucking mouth. I have to remember never to spill my drunken secrets to him ever again.

“Bahorel was just commenting on how, ah,  _unusual_  it is for anyone to make our mutual friend ‘Ponine do anything she doesn’t want to do. And suddenly she’s going to prom all because  _you_  —”

I’m gonna add Grantaire to that list, too. Piece of shit.

“Prom dress shopping!” I yell over Grantaire. “Right. We’re going today?”

Looking past me to Grantaire, back to me, she nods. “Yes! I’m so excited for you to try everything on.”

“Well, not every —” I start, but she grabs my hand and pulls me towards the doors that lead to the student parking lot. I almost pull back quickly at the sudden gesture, my arm all hot and tingly, and if my arm’s getting warm, so is my face.

I hear Grantaire and Bahorel start whistling as soon as the door clicks shut behinds us.

Bastards.

*     *     *

Cosette’s the first to pick out a dress, of course. She goes for this blue sparkly ball gown thing with a sweetheart neckline that makes her boobs look really, really, good. But my favorite thing about the dress is that it’s strapless, so you can see the freckles that sprinkle her shoulders. She admits to not liking them. I think they’re adorable.

Finding a dress is a bit more complicated for me, though, because all I try on is black, while Cosette wants to see me in some color.

“Black is good,” I say as I walk out of the dressing room in a long, slinky number. “Black matches my soul.”

“Éponine,” Cosette starts to say, rolling her eyes and getting up to approach me.

I fake-slap my forehead. “Right, silly me. I don’t have a soul.”

Cosette puts her hand on her hips, exasperated. “You wore black last year.”

“Technically I did not. I wore black to go smoke while you and the rest of our horny group of cavemen grinded against each other of the dance floor.”

We bicker like that for a little while. Mostly over dresses, then the value and purpose of prom (outcome: there is none). I finally agree to try on colors other than black, and I wind up agreeing to a low cut red dress, so all hope is not lost.

Then we go home. That’s it. She drops me off, and I wait on the sidewalk until she turns the corner and zooms toward her home. She’ll walk through the door, climb the two sets of stairs to her cream-colored bedroom, walk passed the framed picture of the two of us from last year, lay on the bed, and call Marius.

I sigh and walk in the overgrown front lawn, over the weeds, and go to my own white room that I share with my little sister, in a crappy house on the bad side of the town. I hang the dress on my door and fall onto my bed, wishing that everything —  _everything_  — could be different.

*     *     *

“You are sticking that bobby pin into my scalp. I can feel it touching my brain.”

“You’re so over-dramatic, Éponine. Besides, you said you wanted your hair out of your face this time ‘round. This is the only way of getting it to stay up for the whole night. That, and hairspray.”

“Fuck the hairspray.”

“Stop squirming!”

“Ouch!”

Cosette takes a step  back and grins, looking at my hair, which is twisted up in some sort of knot at the back of my head, a few soft, chocolate brown tendrils curled around my face. I have to close my eyes and purse my lips as Cosette takes the spray bottle to my head, and I feel her hands lightly skimming over my hair. I try not to think of this moment in a different context, her hands touching my hair, the closeness…no. I’m her friend.

Straight girl crushes amount to nothing. Which is probably why I have one. I can add it to my list of other things that amount to nothing, like my education, or my parents. Or, you know, my life.

Cosette’s already all done up, her hair half up, half down, sprayed with some sort of sparkly hairspray so there’s glitter in her blonde locks, like a fairy princess. Her makeup is light and pretty and fresh, whereas mine, when Cosette is finished with it, is dark and bold.

We get dressed, helping each other zip up the backs of our dresses, which is a sensual act within itself, gay or straight. Bare backs, the sound of the zipper, sucking in your stomach, praying it fits. With her in her heels, I could just lean over and kiss the spot behind her ear.

Only I don’t.

“I like that dress,” Cosette says to me, looking me up and down when she’s finished with me. “Makes your boobs look good — well, they are good to begin with. This just showcases them.”

Just when I thought things could not  _possibly_  get any gayer. Isn’t life just full of fun little surprises?

“You look beautiful,” Cosette says, taking my hand and squeezing it.

I swallow. “You, look beautiful, too.”

“I’m glad you agreed to come this year.”

“Yeah. Me too, I suppose.”

Bahorel and Marius show up, along with some of our other friends, to take pictures and, for some of us (Bahorel, Grantaire, and I) pre-game before we set off in the limo to the school gymnasium. We all have to keep flasks somewhere on us. Last year we learned that they hired bartender sort of people to make our drinks for us, which meant we couldn’t spike the punch. This was much to the disappointment of Grantaire, whose dream has always been to spike a clear plastic punch bowl with his favorite booze. It was traumatic for everyone involved. which was why we went out to the football field to get high.

Cosette squeezes me tight as her dad snaps a picture. My parents aren’t here, of course. I’m not even sure they know where it is I’m at tonight. But I don’t care much, because Cosette’s arms are around my waist and she’s whispering in my ear about how much fun we’re gonna have. I pretend that we’re going together, as dates, that the flowers on are wrists are from each other, and not our boyfriends. Well, for me, it’s a fake boyfriend, but whatever.

Marius tells me I look nice as Bahorel pretends to help me into the limo (“Like I need help from you, you idiot.”), and instead of making me hate him less, I kind of hate him all the more.

*     *     *

The drive to school is short but eventful, mostly because Grantaire and Enjolras were squished together so that Enjolras was practically on Grantaire’s lap. All the blood drained from his already marble-white face as everyone burst into laughter.

We enter the prom. Our principal shakes our hands but doesn’t check for flasks or anything like that, thank the good Lord, and we find seats near the dance floor.

The thing is like four hours long, and Bahorel and I spend most of it on the stairs outside the gym, smoking cigarettes and making plans to get high later. It’s kind of humid and disgusting out here, and my hair will probably frizz, but I don’t care. Cosette and the others spend most of their time indoors, though Grantaire makes a point to come outside durring the evening and steal my cigarette.

“Not good for your lungs, my dear,” he says, bouncing on this toes good-naturally as he inhales the smoke. “Your lady is inside, dancing with Marius. Actually, it’s rather funny, if you want to look. The poor boy can’t dance for anything.”

I roll my eyes. “‘Course he can’t. I’m sure that makes him all the cuter to Cosette.”

Bahorel punches my arm playfully. “Aw, Ep, you’re just jealous.”

Jealous is probably the biggest understatement of the century. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I play with my lighter, opening and closing the top, watching the flame ignite, then go out. Ignite, then go out. The three of us watch, entranced, the buzz from our pre-game beginning to wear off, with the crappy pop music blaring from the inside of the gym as our background noise.

As that dumb British boyband starts wailing on about what makes girls beautiful (as if I need five dudes to tell me I’m hot as hell), the boys go back inside to pee or get non-alcoholic drinks or something of that nature. I’m left by myself, still playing with my lighter, my feet starting to ache from the high black pumps I bought to go to my crappy’s school’s crappy gym and watch my best friend dance with some dumb boy.

It’s funny, to me, how people can’t seem to accept the inevitable. Like, people are always scared shitless about death. But it’s gonna happen, no matter what any of us try to do to stop it. And I’m not saying unrequited love is anything like dying (though the pit in my stomach would say otherwise). I’m just saying that I can’t seem to accept that Cosette will never love me. I’m not gonna go and try to win her heart or anything, but I can’t seem to stop feeling the way I feel. I can’t put that part of me away, like maybe, just maybe, there’s a way for us. Like I still have this tiny bit of hope.

And you know what they say about hope.

I stick my lighter back in my bag and make my way back to our table. It’s just as hot and gross in here, now, as it is outside, what with all the sweaty bodies in close proximity.

Enjolras is sitting at the table by himself, which is funny, since he’s student body president and the one who organized the whole damn thing. Poor kid can’t even enjoy himself.

We don’t say anything to each other, though, just nod curtly. My eyes are on Cosette, whose in the corner of the dance floor. I can see that her shoes are off, and Marius is spinning her, and she’s laughing, laughing, her face lighting up with each turn.

Crushes are dumb. Feelings are dumb. Falling in love with your straight best friend is dumb. Prom is dumb. Agreeing to go with your straight best friend to prom because you have a crush on her and want to make her happy is the dumbest of them all, though.

A slow song starts, something about being fifteen and not knowing what love means, and everyone scrambles to find partners. Except Marius and Cosette have already found each other. He takers her in his arms and they slow dance back and forth. This dance move is something Marius seems to be capable of doing, thank God.

She looks like a princess in her blue dress, in her handsome prince charming’s arms, rocking back and forth to some cheesy love song that’s meant to entice lovers and leave everyone else feeling alone.

Cosette sees me watching towards the end of the song. She waves and smiles, and I wave back, my stomach twisting into a knot. I bite my tongue. I know, no matter how hard it is to accept, that I know the way this story is going to end. It’ll never be me in her arms, or her in mine. The world will turn, turn, turn, and I’ll still feel so completely still, the eye of the hurricane.

These kind of cliches never have happy resolutions for girls like me.


End file.
